


Withered Lungs

by fizzello



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Memories, Drug's are cool but maybe only use them in small doses, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hospitals, Illnesses, Implied Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, M/M, Memories, Minor Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smoking, Underage Smoking, goth kids - Freeform, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzello/pseuds/fizzello
Summary: 9 years... its been awhile hasn't it.
Relationships: Henrietta Biggle/Kenny McCormick, Henrietta Biggle/Original Character(s), Ike Broflovski/Firkle Smith, Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Michael/Pete Thelman, Mike "Vampir" Makowski/Pete Thelman
Kudos: 2





	Withered Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Uh this is my first time writing a fic, for anything. So thats cool. Apologies in advance if it sucks, constructive criticism is always welcomed.

Chapter I 

The Romanath Club

  
  


The blaring noise of an out of tune guitar echoed throughout the dark wooden dance floor, covered wall to wall with old band posters from the 80s, and neon lights. The thumps of steel toed boots hitting the worn out oak floors matched the beat of the music, as crammed bodies danced up and down. The air felt heavy as cigarette smoke engulfed the whole moshpit, making the red strobe lights haze in and out of clear view. Heat from the darkly clothed bodies was immeasurable, and the 100 or so joints that were lit didn't help tone down the body heat. The Type O Negative cover band that was live wasn't anything special, if anything he would say they were worse than the typical garage group. Then again, he really didn't have a right to complain. When you were part of a dying subculture, mediocrity seemed to be the next hit. Truth be told Michael didn't know why he had stopped at a goth club in Denver of all places, well he understood why he stopped here. For years, hell nearly a decade at this point, he’d been avoiding the state of colorado like the bubonic plague. The thought of heading to the Romanath Club brought nostalgia upon him he supposed, deep nostalgia that tempted him too much, so here Michael was, like this club and state was a nicotine craving that needed to be filled. 

The end of the cigarette slowly began to burn Michaels lips(a minor inconvenience, he’d grown used to smoking until the end of the filter- money got tighter for his little habit as the years went on) as the music also began to burn his eardrums. He flicked it down to the floor, immediately being stomped out by another goths dancing. He glanced at the glass in his hand, which was shining red from the lights, bone dry after being spilled on the floor so many times. He was on the outskirts of the moshpit already, a trip to the side bar was already imminent, so after another look at his glass, he decided to slip his way through the remainder of the crowd, trying his best to not step on peoples shoes.

Twisting his way through the practical maze of alts, he found his way out into the bar area. Thankfully it wasn't as tightly packed as the rest of the Romanath. It looked the same as it did during his highschool days, it was as if he entered a time warp and he was suddenly 17 again, ready to show a fake ID for some subpar drinks. The decorative black wallpaper was again adorned with older indie band posters, sign up sheets for god knows what, and disgustingly sappy phrases carved deep into the wall. The same detailed victorian esc wooden bar, the black paint almost fully scratched off, that was stained beyond belief after decades of alcohol spills. Michael could almost make out a stain on the corner of the bar, which was definitely from Firkle vomiting after his first swig of whiskey, at the ripe age of 10. Poor kid never did well with harder drinks, was his only thought as he ran his gangly fingers along the bar top, staring at it as if in a light trance. Needing to physically shake his head, the goth immediately shut down any slice of Firkle from his brain. No, no he really didn't need that right now. He didn't want to think of him. He didn't want to think of any of them. Reminiscing about the tiniest goth would lead to thinking about Henrietta, and thinking of Henrietta would lead his mind astray to… Pete. 

  
  


“-You planning on gettin another drink or you just gonna stand there?” Snapped Michael right from his trance, giving an unimpressed look towards the impatient bartender with annoyingly bright pink neon hair, who was mirroring him across the wooden slab, seemingly having been waiting for him to speak up. He was tempted to just throw the empty glass on the floor to fuck with her, but resisted the urge, slidding the shot glass across to her with an eyeroll. “Basil Hayden’s, already have a tab” he spoke, tapping his fingers up and down on top of the bar methodically as the girl nodded and walked away. He sat down on one of the busted up old stools while he waited, coat getting all scrunched up, trying to not think about what this poor piece of furniture must have endured over the years. He started digging through his trench coats pocket for a pack, gripping onto it and flipping the little box open after shaking it. He cursed under his breath as he pulled out the final joint.. fuck, had he really been smoking that much tonight? He swore he spaced them out better this time. He rotated the cigarette in his hand over and over in intense contemplation, knowing well that he wouldn't be able to buy another pack until after tomorrow, unless he planned to not have dinner again. Glancing up when the bartender wordlessly arrived with his drink, he finally decided that the cigarette needed to be stored till cravings got worse. Maybe he’d get lucky, maybe he’d be able to pickpocket a pack off of someone while they weren't looking. 

Michael took a quick sip off the top, scrunching up his nose at the drink’s harsh bitter taste. He swirled the bourbon back and forth in the glass, small ice cubes clinking against each other, eyes trained on his drink as a couple of drops of condensation slid down and hit the ebony wood, trying to keep his thoughts on the down low, not wanting anymore infectious memories flying up. The muffled sounds of alt rock coming from the mosh pit had changed to a tape recording of Fields Of Nephilim instead of the live music (his ears could easily detect the difference after years), so the goth really didn’t see any point of heading back there. Honestly, he might just leave. This was a fucking pathetic idea to begin with. As if this darkly lit club would bring back any spark of his childhood that would really last. Instead of feeling fulfilled with whatever closure he thought he would get, he sat there yearning for more, something of actual substance, a feeling of regret of vanishing into thin air for years pushing down upon him. God, what was he even doing with himself? 27 years old, and he was sitting in some dingy goth bar in the middle of the country, to get a sense of the good old days, whatever the fuck those were. 

A sudden tap on the shoulder drove him away from whatever dark existential rabbit hole he was about to dive into. Michael glimpsed behind himself with an irritated glare, but his face immediately fell into confusion as he locked eyes with the tapper. Dirty blonde hair that hung down to his shoulders, styled as if someone handed a 1st grader a pair of scissors and told them to go wild. The guy’s eyes looked almost zombie like, any vague trace of blue was pretty much gone, replaced with a washed out glazed light grey. He had a bruise on his cheek, that was only vaguely adorned with an old bandaid, but the blonde didn't seem at all bothered by it. Piercings fully covered his face, he was positive he hadn't ever seen someone with that many eyebrow piercings. A considerable amount of knocked out teeth, either from fights or skateboard accidents, with brackets from braces that apparently were never taken off. A torn to death winter parka hung loosely around the guy's waist. More specifically, an orange parka.

Oh god, please end his life. 

“-Michael?” The blonde narrowed his eyes, something in Michael’s face must’ve given it away, because none other than Kenny McCormick soon gave a lopsided grin from ear to ear, seemingly in disbelief over the apparent spectacle that was Michael's existence. “Michael- holy shit. Wow.. no offense, I thought you died in a ditch years back, like seriously, fuck how you been man?” Michael didn’t respond, instead giving his old highschool acquaintance a look of sheer confusion instead. McCormick definitely wasn't someone he wanted to nor thought he’d see again. It wasn't as if the two were complete strangers, Henrietta and that kid had been on and off together/fuck buddies the entirety of highschool, so he had countless memories of 6:00am coffee with Kenny every single time he managed an escape to Hen’s house early… always trying very hard to ignore whatever the fuck those two had done the previous night. But why was McCormick here, of all places? Had all of those years of Henrietta forcing him to listen to gothic rock really paid off? Brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to figure this riddle out, he suddenly realized the Blonde was going in for an embrace. He immediately ducked out of the physical contact, which he had never been good with, almost fumbling out of the chair as he shied away. 

“-try and touch me again and I’ll slit your fucking throat.” he hissed, which made McCormick back up a few steps then raise his hands in the air as if to truce, before pulling out an empty stool beside the taller man, inviting himself into an interaction, though it was plenty clear from Michael that he wanted nothing to do with him. “Well, it’s Nice to know you haven't changed.” He laughed as he sat down on a neighboring chair next to Michael, which the goth thought was still too close for comfort. A toothy grin still clearly plastered on McCormick’s broken damaged face, signaling for the bartender with a wave while ordering some fruity little drink because he couldn't shoot back whiskey. As the bartender walked away, Kenny watched the taller man across from him’s movements intricately, while Michael's eyes stared into the wishy washy reflection of the liquid. He cringed at the alcoholic mirror below him. He hasn't changed much appearance wise since highschool, unlike Kenny, who at least gained more bruises. His brown eyes were practically sunken into his skull after so many restless nights. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” Kenny pointed out, raising an eyebrow. Michael took another sip, getting sick of looking at his own disappointing reflection. He rested the rim of the glass on his forehead. “I’m fine, Kenneth.” Michael said through gritted teeth, glaring down at the bar, as if he stared at it hard enough he could eventually set it on fire. “What are you even doing here? Not like you ever actually liked any of our music.” he asked. McCormick had always been a pop music slut, If he remembered correctly, he was pretty sure McCormick had a glittery britney spears pencil case… In highschool. 

“Well you know.. I may or may not be selling some illegal items and services.” The blonde explained with a disgustingly suggestive wink. Michael gave him an unimpressed look. “So you're a drug dealer  _ and _ a prostitute now?” “You don't sound very surprised.” “That’s because I’m not.” The conversation continued on like this. McCormick Bringing up some new interesting fact about his life, Michael making a sny and vaguely insulting comment, McCormick laughing it off and jumping to the next topic, rinse and repeat. Apparently McCormick didn't feel like picking up on any of the social clues Michael was throwing at him. Had he always been this dense? Michael could probably say out loud to leave him the fuck alone, and Kenny still wouldn’t take a hint. Drinks were brought by the bartender, empty drink glasses started to pile around the two’s bar area(at least McCormick said he was paying, probably the only good reason about the guy being in his presence for this long), a basket of soggy fries had been eventually ordered by the blonde, Michael just cringed at the greasy appearance. At this point he just started to block anything the other man was saying, drowning him out best he could with what little background music there was in the dim club. Something about Karen and him getting matching tattoos? Nothing important, he didn’t even look over when Kenny pulled his sleeve up to show it off. That was until a forsaken name was mentioned.

“-Hen did a pretty nice job- you know she's getting better at drawing plants, but I think her hands are still a bit shaky.” The hillbilly said nonchalantly, still holding his sleeve up. He didn't actually mean Henrietta Henrietta, right? He had to be talking about a different hen. But how many henrietta’s did McCormick know that happened to like tattooing people? Kenny’s face didn't give off any clues, but he was talking like he knew the Hen in question. Curiosity got the best of Michael as he looked down at the tattoo. A delicately inked in black rose had been laid on Kenny’s forearm. Sharply drawn thorns were drawn onto the stem, some broken thorns floating around the flower. A set of white angel wings was decorated around the rose, cursive lettering with the McCormick last name on top of it all. If this was made by Henrietta Biggle herself, she’d improved stunningly. The work was beautiful. This wasn’t anything like the shitty stick and poke tattoos she had given him when they were kids. The Rose drawing was leagues ahead of the shitty Edgar Allen Poe tattoo he’d been stuck with for years. Blacked out eyes were not a creative decision when you accidentally draw a line through them, Henrietta. Kenny’s voice seemed muted (as if he had his old parka zipped up) as Michael stared down at the ink. 

“You ever gotten back in contact with her?” So it was Henrietta. He didn’t exactly know how to feel about that. The light bubble of happiness of his old clique quickly needed to be stomped out. Michael looked away from the tattoo and back at his… 3rd.. 4th drink? He might've lost count. “No. Why would I want to?” McCormick gave the raven haired male a confused look, starting to open his mouth to speak before seemingly closing his mouth again as he locked eyes with someone behind him. Michael looked over Kenny’s shoulder, seeing a man he didn’t recognize looming on the other side of the bar. “Clientele.” was the only explanation Kenny gave, waving towards his er… client. The client didn't seem to give any friendly greeting back. Michael was just praying that he wouldn’t have to get in between whatever this was. He watched as Kenny reached over the basket of fry crumbs, grabbing onto a napkin, then leaning even further over the bar and snatching a ball point pen from behind. McCormick wrote one line on the napkin, then glanced at Michael, looking him up and down as if trying to read him. The blond bit his bottom lip in consideration, before writing a second line on the flimsy napkin, and passing it to the Goth. 

“Look, give me a call, or a text, right?” Michael looks down at the napkin with disdain, reading the messily written phone number, a small smiley face and a crudely drawn dick next to it, with an arrow pointing to it and the name Kenny. It was hard to keep himself from eye rolling. Next line was another number- with the name Henrietta scribbled next to it. He furrowed his eyebrows, Immediately looking back up to where McCormick was sitting. “You don’t need to call her if you don't want to. I just like- wanted to give you the option.” Michael opened his mouth for some comeback, but Kenny continued. “Ya know, I think she misses you. I mean- I don’t talk to them as much as I should, but I think they all miss you.” Kenny insisted, standing up from the bar stool, popping one more fry in his mouth, before patting Michael on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Michael.” Was the last thing the Goth heard before the old acquaintance disappeared to go do his ‘work’. He was left alone, staring at the Name on the Napkin. It wasn’t like he’d use McCormick’s number, again, he would be content with never seeing him. But he couldn't stop himself from reading Hen’s number, over and over again in a deep trance. 

* * *

“But.. why?” Henrietta was the first voice to speak up from the silence, as all 3 pairs of eyes were trained on the red haired goth. The dark painted bedroom was only lit with discount hallmark candles, short after years and years of endless use, which barely lit up each other's faces. Scattered pieces of journal paper we’re gathering around the floor, dangerously close to the fire. Some had been crumpled and thrown across the room, into an overflowing garbage can. Poetry lines were written down on some of the neater looking papers, though none of them we’re anything groundbreaking. Bottles of store brand alcohol were sitting empty, balanced up on the foot of the bed. Stacks of CD’s were carefully balanced next to them, with black sharpie writing all over them. Firkle had an open CD case in his hands, seemingly distracted from his task as he also stared. The faith and the muse that had been playing on the beat up old stereo had been turned down by Pete before his announcement, and had been the only small sound playing during the initial shock, buzzing as the drum solo played. Even though the candles lights were flickering in and out of view, the blush creeping on Pete’s pale face was beyond obvious. 

“Because why not? I don’t need to give you an explanation. You should be happy that I wanted to tell you.” Pete stated as he flipped a red hair strand away from his eyes, reaching out towards the veggie tray Henrietta's mom had brought up for them minutes before (goddamn conformist bitch), and grabbing a carrot dipped in hummus. “Because your fucking Mike of all people- do you have a vampire kink now or something?” The youngest goth pointed out, finally putting down the black flag CD he’d been holding. Pete rolled his eyes, though still seeming affected by their negative reactions, finishing his snack before continuing. “Look it's... complicated, alright?” “So you  _ do  _ have a thing for vampir-” Firkle got hit in the face by a flying carrot (thrown by pete) before being able to finish. “You're messing around with a canadian, you don't get to talk.” The smallest goth opened their mouth for a nasty retort, then went quiet realizing Pete was right. Henrietta only rolled her eyes at the interaction, going back to reading a poetry book. The tension could be cut with a chainsaw 

The silence from the eldest goth rang obvious. Michael was splayed out on Henrietta’s bed, stolen demonia boots kicked up on the grey headboard of the bed, cane laying beside him. His dwindling cigarette was balanced unevenly between his fingers and skull ashtray (After all, he didn’t want to set henrietta’s sheet on fire again), the small smoke cloud slowly flowing up to the ceiling. Pete’s eyes had been flicking from the ground to Michael, waiting for any sort of reaction from him besides complete neutrality. Michael honestly didn't know how to react. He didn't give a shit about Pete’s fucking love life... let him rephrase that, he shouldn't care. But having the idea of Mike of all people being with Pete doubled whatever child like hatred he still held against the Vamp kid. Of all people, why Mike? The maniac who couldn't tell you what was real life and what was a twilight sub plot, was who Pete wanted to be into? Seriously? Pete would be better off with any other person, fuck Pete would be better off with him. He stomped out that idea immediately, he’d rather not let that fantasy play out. Bringing the cigarette to his lips and sucking the fiery smoke into his lungs. “Do what you want, as long as none of us have to deal with him.” he exhaled, shrugging his shoulders. 

Pete seemed to immediately relax after hearing that, as if he cared about Michael’s opinion more than the rest. He went back to picking at the veggie tray selection. Henrietta looked mildly surprised by Michael’s conclusion, but didn’t speak up. Firkle just groaned, stubbing out his cigarette bud on the bed's leg. “Whatever, poser. It’s that time of the month my parents pretend to give a shit about me anyway.” the smallest goth stated, standing up from his spot on the red pentagram carpet, and dusting themself off. A muttered “Good luck” came from Henrietta as Firkle exited the room, closing the door quickly behind him (so none of the darkness could seep out). The rest of the night was uneventful for the most apart. Bickering over the next Bauhaus record to play, debating which Cure albums were actually goth, the usual schedule. An hour or two later, Pete announced his departure, mumbling something about promising to hang out with Mike. Guess they knew where Pete actually went when he said he needed to ‘study’ for the past 2 months now. 

The two remaining bat’s sat across from each other, letting the sweet sounds of Alien Sex Fiend drowned out the quiet that laid between them. Michael kept rolling his cigarette between his long spindly hands, staring at the blue popcorn ceiling. He wouldn’t admit it if someone asked, but his mind was solely on the red headed goth right now. What was he even doing with Mike? The guy acted like an incel- so it couldn't be anything like.. that. Pete was probably roped into some twilight movie marathon. He ignored whatever pang of jealousy tore inside at the thought of those two cuddling on the couch of all things… fucking sickening. He felt eyes watching him, as he glanced towards Henrietta, who was staring at him. She was wearing an expression that really didn't belong on her face, concern, and… a form of slight pity. The taller goth went back to glaring at the ceiling, as the raven haired girl sighed. She stood up from her spot on the floor, shaking the stray ash that had accumulated in the folds of her dress off, and tossing her poetry book carelessly to the ground before walking to the queen sized bed. Michael finally looked back to her as she sat down criss crossed on the red and black comforter. She gestured her hand out towards Michael. He rolled his eyes, but still handed her his cigarette for a drag. They continued to smoke in silence. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Henrietta spoke up bluntly, pushing his cane off the bed as she laid down next to Michael, making the bed creak as she scooched herself down. She took a hit before passing the cigarette back to him, coughing slightly. “Talk about what?” he muttered, as if he didn’t understand exactly what she was getting at. He pushed the embering end of the cigarette into the ashtray, before retrieving a stray one from his trench coat pocket. “Pete.” She stated. Michael avoided eye contact, fidgeting with the unlit joint, before Henrietta reached out her own busted up purple lighter and lit up the end. Even before today's predicament, Pete had always been a topic she wouldn't drop. Ever since 8th grade she had convinced herself that Michael was apparently ‘in love’ with Pete, eventually Firkle even joined in to thinking Michael had a crush on a particular red headed goth. The worst part is that Henrietta always ended up being right with her predictions, even if she was a couple years early. She apparently knew since Firkle was 8 that he and Ike would end up dating. There was apparently nothing that could convince her she was wrong about this one. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Michael said bluntly with an eyeroll, shifting himself so he was resting on his elbows., before Henrietta took the flame once more from his fingertips. She paused before continuing, looking the Curly haired goth up and down, seemingly looking for any slight change in his body language. Like a vulture deciding which part of her prey's guts to dissect into first. She stared at him in the eyes, immediately frowning before looking towards the ceiling and inhaling the fresh joint. “You're a shitty liar.” He sighed deeply after hearing that, knowing there was nothing he could say to really change her mind. He went dead silent, only hoping that Hen wouldn't take this as a win. His eyes strayed across the room, not wanting to go through anymore of Henrietta’s soul gazing, finally landing on the electric clock that was balanced on a stack of old tattered diaries. “...It’s getting late.” It really wasn’t, not by their standards at least. They could go weeks on end without a shred of sleep. But he didn’t want this torture to go on longer then it had to. He yanked a part of his trench coat out from under her, standing up, carefully picking up his cane from the carpet so as to not damage the poor thing more. Henrietta brought herself up to sit, pulling her knees up to her chest as she watched Michael collect himself. 

“Michael?” “Henrietta.” Another moment of silence held heavy in the air between the two, as the Raven haired girl bit her bottom lip, making her black lipstick smudge onto her teeth ever so slightly. Again, this expression didn’t fit on her normal scowling face. It was almost as if she was trying to be careful. “You should try talking to him at least, you can’t just hide this forev-” The older goth didn't let her finish her thought, before turning his back on her and walking towards the door. 

“Goodnight, hen.” 

* * *

Michael silently tucked the hastily written number into his back pocket. 


End file.
